


A Tattered Line of String

by a_pondicus



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Drunk Hawke, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-23
Updated: 2014-05-08
Packaged: 2018-01-20 12:24:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 18,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1510328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_pondicus/pseuds/a_pondicus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fenris is very bad at pushing Hawke away. Hawke takes advantage of this. Fen does an asshole thing, Hawke gets drunk and confronts him. The rest, as they say, is history.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Party Banter

The past few months had been a struggle for Fenris. It seemed at every turn there was something to remind him of what he’d lost - no, what he’d given up. Unconsciously, as he fingered the ribbon tied around his wrist, his eyes flicked upward to the man in question, who was leading the party through Hightown. Fenris was always surprised when Hawke asked him to come along; he had thought that leaving the way he did would harbor feelings of resentment.  That did not seem to be the case. He had thought it better if Hawke hated him, but the man seemed remarkably determined to do anything but.  Catching himself ogling Hawke, he quickly fixed his gaze elsewhere. As if life itself wished to remind him of his inadequacy for the champion, he was being given various looks from the residents of Hightown, varying from mild curiosity to open disdain.

Fenris sighed heavily, and as his growing discomfort lead him to shift back and forth on his bare feet, he said gruffly, “I am rather conspicuous here.”

  
  


Motioning for Varric and Isabela to go on ahead, Hawke dropped back to keep pace with the most disgruntled member of the party. With Fenris at his back again, Hawke was especially high in spirits. As was his habit, he decided to spread the joy. “If nasty looks from a few uptight nobles is the worst thing that happens to us today, we’re coming out ahead,” Hawke joked, hoping to take the sting out of what he knew was an awkward situation.

Like much of Hawke’s humor, it might not have been tactful, but it did give him the chance to do what he’d been studiously avoiding all day; look at Fenris. It hadn’t been easy coming to terms with the truth, that Fenris wouldn’t be returning once he’d left. He’d practically said as much, but Hawke liked to hope. After weeks had passed, then months, he’d had to admit to himself that the door had closed between them. Whether it opened again remained to be seen. He’d expected Fenris to put up more resistance to being dragged from his moldy old mansion on every mildly interesting request that crossed Hawke’s desk, but thus far, they were together more often than not. Perhaps the fact that Fenris still wore his favor meant something, after all.

 

Fenris tried to suppress the snort of laughter that arose from Hawke’s comment, and almost succeeded. When he heard the man’s voice, his gaze was involuntarily drawn to its source. Upon finding Hawke studying him, he became slightly flustered and looked away once more; the nobles who passed varied in their study of him. Some gazes lingered on the bloodstains that remained on his armor, while many were drawn to the markings etched into his flesh.

His expression soured and he turned back to Hawke.

"You are their Champion. Their ‘nasty looks’ are for my benefit alone," he grumbled, eyes downcast in their resolution to not look at Hawke. It grew more difficult with each passing second, and he fidgeted in his discomfort. He preferred to study Hawke when he himself was not being studied. It left no air of awkwardness or tension. Fenris sighed again. "These markings are the wonder of some and disdain of many. I do not enjoy being ogled as though I were some freak at a troupe sideshow.”

He shook his head.

"We should move on," Fenris said gruffly, attempting to simultaneously push away these thoughts and resist the urge to reach out and touch Hawke as he passed by the taller man.

 

“Fenris,” Hawke said as the elf slipped by him, putting a hand carefully on his shoulder to bring him to a halt. Though he managed to avoid the spikes, Hawke still snatched his hand back like he’d been pricked. This uncertainty was driving him mad. Months ago, he wouldn’t have hesitated to touch any one of his companions, including the frequently brooding elf. As long as he kept the contact brief and unassuming, Fenris had seemed content to let Hawke get away with his heart still beating in his chest. Or at least he’d been lucky so far.

Now that he had Fenris’ attention, Hawke waved a dismissive hand at a passing noble. “Hang what these stuffy bastards think of you.”

He couldn’t help trying to bring an end to the tension, more amused than intimidated by the look on the elf’s face.

“If you threw half as many scowls in their direction as you do mine, none of the nobles in Hightown would dare glance at you askew. Even the Champion cowers before your mighty disapproval, Ser Elf.” The familiar teasing grin was firmly in place, Hawke walking backwards, inviting Fenris to be charmed out of his doldrums. “Let’s see if I can find you a nice, filthy slaver’s den to vent your frustrations on, then we’ll pop over to the Hanged Man for swill and cards.”

 

The hand on his shoulder, though momentary, brought unbidden the memory of the last time Hawke did that, which ended up with Fenris pressed against a wall. Among other things.  He was distracted enough by the memory, and the way Hawke’s lips pulled up at the corner when he grinned, that he paused for several long moments before attempting (and failing) to shoot a withering glare at Hawke’s backside.

"I don’t scowl,” he muttered just loud enough for his companion to hear before trailing after him, as he always did. He added in a softer tone, “Not at you.”

The thought of any sort of fray to jump into spiked Fenris’ adrenaline slightly, though he was preoccupied with another thought.

_Does he truly not care what others think of me? An elf, a former slave, a house-squatter with no real possessions of my own._

He knew the answer already, for he had asked it of Hawke some time ago, but still the question troubled him.

Fenris very nearly tripped over Hawke in his preoccupation, and after a bit of fumbling and gruff apologies, he put it from his mind.  After all, Hawke made his decision those months ago, and though a joker he may be, Fenris knew he was never one to make empty promises of affection.

 

“I’d wager you’re scowling right now,” Hawke shot back without turning, hardly needing the benefit of sight to imagine the look on his companion’s handsome face. He’d never needed the help to picture Fenris in his mind’s eye, in all the many nuances of his often stormy moods. It had taken Hawke time to realize the differences between Fenris’ many shades of discontent and warning, to discover which were truly dangerous, and which were just for show. The rare smile was a gift that made every frown more than worth bearing.

Rarer still were the times when those green eyes met his, trusting in their regard, the face that held them soft and open in a way that never failed to move Hawke as few other things could do. Now, Hawke despaired of ever seeing that particular expression again. He was no fool; Hawke knew that Fenris was tempted to rebuild the distance between them. Maker take Hawke if he ever stood back and let that happen.

After an admittedly pleasant collision with Fenris that was corrected with perhaps more touching than was strictly necessary, (Hawke was a firm believer in never wasting an opportunity), he sped his steps to catch up to his other companions. Briefly explaining the plan to them, Hawke traded good-natured jibes with Varric and empty flirtations with Isabela as they made their way to the Wounded Coast. They’d certainly cleared enough slavers from the area to know their work back to front.

These requests were some of Hawke’s favorites, for the simple fact of the brutal kind of joy it seemed to bring Fenris when he completely decimated the slave traders. Not that Hawke didn’t enjoy burning the stink off those worthless pigs with a few timely bursts of power, but Fenris really seemed to get an understandable kick out of the whole thing. Better still if they could rescue some victims from such a cruel fate.

Outside the cavern described in the missive Hawke had received, he paused to check his stock of lyrium potions, turning his back to Fenris as was his habit. Hawke knew that Fenris had come to accept him despite the fact that he was a mage, but especially in these tense times, it couldn’t hurt to limit the reminders of his nature. The last thing Hawke wanted was to provide Fenris with reasons not to return to him, however unlikely it was that Hawke’s magehood would provide that excuse.

 

Fenris stood a few paces behind Hawke, his body humming with anticipation as Varric made adjustments to Bianca and Isabela quickly ran a whetstone over her daggers.  His eyes lingered on the both of them before turning to their leader. He watched impassively as Hawke rummaged through his supplies, and though the mage's back was turned, he could see Hawke touch on several blue bottles that Fenris knew were lyrium potions.  Hawke looked at him with something akin to trepidation; Fenris had noticed the concerted effort the dark-haired man had made to keep reminders of his magic out of plain sight.  Fenris was grateful, but not for the reasons he suspected Hawke of doing such a thing.  If he was entirely honest with himself, every little reminder of Hawke’s magic only served to remind him of Hawke’s touch. The dusky glow of his tattoos underneath Hawke’s gentle hands as they reacted to the lyrium; he had never been touched like that before. It had never been pleasant before. The memory was one he replayed often, and it always brought heat to his gaze and quickened his breath.

Snapping out of his reverie, Fenris realized he had been staring at Hawke’s hands for several long moments, and, feeling himself flush, he snapped his eyes to Hawke’s, saying, “Shall we?” before looking swiftly away again.

To his left, Isabela let out a giggle, and Fenris shifted, his face coloring against his will, and he bit back a scathing retort. He made a grumbling noise to himself and promptly busied himself with picking the dried blood off of his armor. As the other two companions began cracking jokes at his expense, he wished Hawke would get on with it, so he could crush the hearts of the scum that were lurking in these caverns, instead of unintentionally baring his so often. His lips turned further down at the corners and his brow furrowed at the thought.

 

Hawke finished his pre-fight potions check, readied his staff, and turned, just in time to catch Fenris giving his hands the sort of look that had Hawke’s heartbeat speeding to a rapid drumming. Meeting the elf’s defensive gaze, for the few seconds it was offered, struck Hawke with the same sizzling ozone tang as lightning, a sudden nearly palpable lick of heat as potent as any lyrium potion.

He knew why his hands had caught Fenris’ eye, knew what he must have been thinking, and it would be a filthy lie if Hawke claimed those memories never crossed his mind. That night remained Hawke’s fondest memory to revisit each night that he walked the Fade, both a boon and a torment.

“Yes, Fenris,” Hawke murmured, fingers tightening on the staff he held ready.

It was only when Hawke heard Varric’s amused snicker that he realized he was answering a question Fenris hadn’t asked, rather than the much tamer inquiry that had actually taken place. “Ah, that is, we should,” he added, trying to rescue every scrap of his now-shredded pride. “We should go. Lots of slavers in there need killing, so off we dash.”

Plenty of color in his own cheeks, Hawke turned on his heel and charged into the cavern, a spell at the ready. Those slavers didn’t stand a chance.

Once they found the bastards, Hawke and his companions were a well-orchestrated instrument, spelling the demise of every morally devoid creature that crept through the caves. Spell after spell launched into the fray, fire ripping through slavers as they attempted to swarm around Hawke’s friends. Those that avoided the flames were blasted back by lightning, stunned as they met their ends on a ready blade.

More than once, Hawke had to force his attention away from the violent poetry that was Fenris in battle, beautiful and deadly in equal measure. Hawke didn’t neglect supporting Varric and Isabela, but if the slavers that attacked Fenris got particularly forceful spells flung at them, well, who could blame Hawke for it?

 

As the battle waged around them, Fenris let loose a mighty roar, bringing the power etched into his skin to life. The air around him crackled, and with a feral snarl he leapt, striking down foe after foe with grace and ease. They had done this so many times that his steps and action became that of a well-rehearsed dance.  When simple numbers even hinted at a threat to his person, a well-placed fireball or a timely wall of ice struck his foes down before he could become overwhelmed.  He had felt Hawke’s eyes on him during the fray, and he allowed himself a prideful smirk as he felled another slaver. It gave him pleasure to know that he was still such a distraction to the man.  He took no enjoyment from forcing the distance that now tensely, but loosely, held between them.

Fenris allowed himself the luxury of looking at Hawke momentarily when he wasn’t surrounded by enemies. His heart stopped; while Hawke had his hands full with attacking from afar, giving Isabela and Varric support, a lone slaver crept up behind the mage, daggers glinting threateningly.  Almost instantly, Fenris appeared at Hawke’s side, shimmering as his power drew to the surface. He crushed the idiot’s heart, blood splattering across his cheeks and nose as an almost possessive snarl pulled his lips up. Another battle cry left his lips, and he bared his teeth at any idiotic enough to come within a threatening distance of Hawke or himself. The few slavers that were left faltered at his expression, leaving an opening for the other three to fell them quickly.

 

Before Hawke had even realized he was in danger, Fenris was there, destroying the threat with his customary thoroughness and grace. The spell Hawke had been weaving momentarily faltered, but he regained his focus to help neatly dispatch the remaining slavers. When their enemies were dead, Isabela and Varric immediately began looting the bodies for valuable and worthless items of interest alike, the rustle of fabric and cheerful sound of Isabela humming filling the cavern to replace the bloody sounds of fighting.

Catching his breath, Hawke turned to Fenris with a grateful nod and a grin. “That little sneak would have skewered me if you hadn’t caught him, Fenris. Much obliged.” There was a telling tremble in Hawke’s hands, the power of the lyrium potions he’d consumed still thrumming through his veins. He reached over slowly, as he would with any creature so wildly unpredictable, and smoothed his thumb across Fenris’ cheek, erasing a smear of blood there. “And look at that,” Hawke said quietly, his gaze affectionate. “You’re scowling.”

Hawke chuckled as he walked away to do his share of the looting, unwilling to let Isabela squirrel away all the best bits to feed her demented lust for fine headgear and trips to the Rose.  

 

The skin tingled, almost burned, where Hawke’s thumb has grazed him. His heartbeat was still hammering in his ears, but as the bloodlust faded, the hammering remained. Before Hawke could near the others, Fenris’ hand shot out and closed around Hawke’s wrist, causing the mage to fall back a step.

"Hawke, I…"  He started, cursing his difficulty with expressing emotion. "You must be more aware of your surroundings. The thought of you becoming injured, or… because I wasn’t close by enough…" What could he say? It’s unbearable? It makes me want to vomit with anxiety? I can’t stand the thought of losing you? He settled with, "it… displeases me." He allowed himself to stroke Hawke’s wrist with his thumb before dropping the contact and regaining a polite amount of distance between them. However, he did not drop Hawke’s gaze, however much he wished to.  He wanted the mage to know he was serious.

 

The sincerity of Fenris’ gaze, the truth and weight of it, pushed all thoughts of looting from Hawke’s mind, banishing everything but that moment. After the way Fenris had left that night, and the awkwardness that had settled between them, Hawke had believed he’d heard the last affectionate phrase fall from that expressive mouth. True, for anyone else, it wouldn’t have passed for affection, but from this broody elf, it was practically a declaration of undying esteem.

It was Hawke’s turn to reach out now, to take Fenris’ hand and lay bare a piece of his heart. “In that case, Fenris, I shall take more care in the future.” He stroked over the exposed palm of Fenris’ lyrium-streaked hand, to the sharpened, bloody tips of his gauntlets. “I wouldnever risk your displeasure.” For once, there was no teasing smile, no clever turn of phrase to lighten the seriousness of Hawke’s words.

He held the contact a moment longer, then hesitated a beat before he tucked a wayward strand of hair behind one pointed ear, noting with some amusement that even here, Fenris was flecked with blood. “You could come by the estate when we return,” Hawke offered before he could think the better of it. “The bath is certainly better maintained there than in your mansion, and you’ve got blood everywhere.”

 

Fenris looked down mutely at where Hawke’s fingers grazed against the small portion of his hand that was exposed, his heart pounding in his chest as Hawke replied to him. His eyes flicked up to Hawke’s, searching for any levity or humor in their depths, but there was none to be found. He allowed a soft, small smile to lift his expression, in Hawke’s sight, no less, as the contact remained.

It took everything in him not to let out what anyone else would call as a gasp (Fenris doesn't gasp, thank you very much) as the mage’s fingers brushed his ear, sending a thrill to his very core.  

The elf snorted, trying to ignore the thrum of arousal from Hawke's touch, and replied drily, “This coming from the man who seems to indelibly have a smear of blood across his face?” He let out a low chuckle, mouth turning up as he said, “Even with my meager accommodations I seem to remain more blood free than our Champion.”

He considered for a moment the obvious implications of Hawke’s offer. It was tempting, to be sure, and not only because he still found the man before him incredibly desirable.  Fenris was loathe to admit it, but heating up water for a bath was an insanely difficult task, so he usually forewent that luxury and bathed in lukewarm, sometimes even cold water. He hadn’t had a warm bath in years.  Instead of saying these things, he looked down with another chuckle and gained an air of indignancy as he crossed his arms in mock outrage.

"In any matter, do you think me so easy to seduce, Champion? I am not so eager as a Hightown girl, using any excuse to get into your home."

Fenris’ expression turned dark briefly at the thought of Hawke using such a line on such a girl, frivolous coupling to pass the time. However, Fenris was the one who left, so he had no right to complain, and no right to ask.

 

It was true that Hawke always seemed to attract just a bit of blood, no matter how relaxing his day had proved to be. But to see Fenris flecked in dirt or smeared with blood always gave Hawke the most distracting urge to see to the elf’s cleanliness himself. He briefly wondered if Fenris had ever shared a bath with another person, for no other reason than the pure and simple pleasure of it.

Perhaps Fenris would like to try that, the lecherous part of Hawke’s mind whispered.

Best not press your luck, chimed in the portion of his brain that kept him alive and kicking. There was a familiar shadow behind Fenris’ eyes, a question that Hawke knew would go unasked, and one that Hawke would still do his best to answer.

“Come now, Fenris. You must know I save all of my very best lines for you. Don’t tell me I’ve fallen short already.” Hawke put on his best affronted expression, hand held to his chest as if stemming a wound while he sighed as dramatically as possible. “There’s no way to save my reputation as a master of seduction now. All those empty-headed Hightown girls will be so disappointed after all the lies they’ve read in Varric’s sordid tales.” As if Hawke would waste time tupping a Hightown girl when there were several glorious feet of extremely well-made elf for him to admire, right in front of him.

In a last-ditch effort to convince his companion of the virtues of a steaming hot bath after a long, dirty battle, Hawke smiled, the gentle, coaxing smile that so often got him what he wanted. “What harm could there be in a warm bath, Fenris?” He grinned, adding, “Unless you’re worried I might sneak a glance or two.” Or ten.

 

Hawke always seemed to read him like a book, even though Fenris prided himself on playing his cards close to his chest. It was equal parts irritating and touching. In this case, the latter.

Mollified for the moment, Fenris focused his attention on Hawke’s continual come-ons. He met Hawke’s gaze from underneath the fringe of his hair, allowing lust to momentarily touch them, and let out a slow, throaty chuckle.

"Perhaps it isn’t your actions I am concerned with, but my own, Hawke," Fenris replied, the desire he tried to keep hidden adding a rough edge to his voice.  It got harder and harder - ahem, more difficult - to maintain a respectable distance, both physically as well as socially and romantically.  He coughed, shifting uncomfortably again and looked pointedly away, considering trying to make conversation with Isabela to change the subject.

Looking around, he noticed that the bodies were already looted and their companions were nowhere to be found. Fenris got the nagging feeling that Hawke planned this, but perhaps he was giving the mage too much credit.

 

“So you’re worried you might be sneaking glances, then? I rather thought we’d bathe separately, but if you’d like to soak together, I won’t complain.” That voice. The faintest hint of desire transformed Fenris’ voice into something so blatantly inflaming it should have been bottled and sold at the Rose, and Hawke found it as stimulating as ever. He widened his stance as subtly as possible, thankful (not for the first time) for the heavy clothing that so nicely concealed his –er, enthusiastic state.

The resistance was crumbling for both of them, and to Hawke, it was about time. Coming home drunk on cheap ale (or whatever passed for ale at the Hanged Man) to an empty bed that smelled of dog was getting old, and the only person Hawke wanted warming his sheets seemed bound and determined to stay well clear of them.

Hawke followed Fenris’ gaze, looking around himself. “Oh, look at that,” he said in a tone that was anything but convincing. “It seems Isabela and Varric got bored and went on ahead. Who’d have guessed they’d have other plans for the day? It seems we’ll have to make the journey back ourselves, Fenris.” And in case that was too subtle, he added, “The two of us. Alone. All that way. Whatever shall we talk about, with no one around to overhear?” Heading toward the mouth of the cave, Hawke hid a grin. This was turning out perfectly so far.

 

"Glances alone wouldn’t be my intent," he rumbled under his breath, shaking his head and allowing a smile while Hawke’s back was turned.

""I think I should like to bathe upon our return," Fenris conceded with no small amount of chagrin. "However, I believe we would both be more comfortable if any bathing to be done were done separately."  

 

Since Hawke was so jovially marching toward the mouth of the cave, Fenris allowed himself to openly appreciate what a very nice backside the Champion had. He still recalled vividly what Hawke’s body looked like under the clothing he wore.  He also recalled the rush of memories their night together gave them, and he recalled the agonizing loss of those memories.  This, if nothing else, gave him pause in any attempt to pursue Hawke once more, though Hawke seemed more than willing to make such an attempt.

 

Fenris both dreaded and looked forward to so much time alone with Hawke. He didn’t really know how to start a conversation to steer them into clearer waters, so he merely coughed and remarked on how cold the weather had been getting lately. It almost reminded him of autumns in Tevinter; the Free Marches were more known for their mild weather.

Satisfied that he’d at least convinced Fenris to have a soak, Hawke decided to ease off for now. His companion could be pushed only so far into intimacy before he would suffer no more attention, and Hawke didn’t want to risk getting him to that point. That didn’t mean that he couldn’t enjoy the sensation of Fenris’ eyes on him. He briefly wondered if Fenris knew exactly how sharp and hungry his eyes were when he looked at Hawke, when he thought he couldn’t be seen in turn.

Fenris’ blatant attempt at finding a safe topic of conversation had Hawke hiding a chuckle. He knew his prickly elf wouldn’t appreciate being laughed at. “Indeed, it has been brisk lately. Nice to get out of the city just the same. I love it out here, have I ever told you?” Hawke looked out at the vast expanse of the coast, feeling for all the world like he could pitch himself off the edge and swim to the nearest sunken vessel, just to see what secrets it might hold. “We just left an entire cavern filled with so much death, Fenris. But out here…” Hawke took a deep breath and let it out slowly, tilting his face up toward the sky. “It just smells clean. Fresh. Getting Kirkwall out of my lungs is nearly reward enough for dragging myself out here.”

He realized then that he’d stopped walking while he thought, and hurried to correct that, taking a few hasty steps. “How is it for you? The fine sand on your feet must certainly feel better than the broken cobblestones in the city, or the sludge of Darktown.”

  
  


Fenris had been giving Hawke sidelong glances since they left the cave, an attempt at discretion. It was fascinating to watch him talk, to see the emotions play over his face as they came to him, rather than keeping them hidden, as he himself did.

When Hawke asked about his feet, he let out a soft laugh.

"Other than the occasional rock, I do much prefer the soft sands of the Coast.  ….The weather here reminds me of a time long ago, that I can’t quite recall…" Fenris trailed off, a thoughtful expression pulling his brows together.  That seemed to be happening more and more lately.  Since that night with Hawke, it seemed as if something had unlocked inside his mind.  Smaller, insignificant memories tickled at his subconscious, some returning, some just teasing. It was equal parts maddening and thrilling.

He trailed behind Hawke, unaware of his own silence as he lost himself in pondering.

  
  


It seemed that The Wounded Coast called the introspection out in man and elf alike. Hawke let the silence ride for a few moments, enjoying the bit of quiet for what it was. This was a rarity in his line of work. There was always someone to listen to, some complaint to entertain, a request that needed seeing to. Even the constant chatter from his companions could grate on Hawke’s nerves after a long battle. With Fenris, though, that never seemed to happen. Hawke was happy to listen to him speak for as long as he wished to do so, and when they both fell into their own thoughts, the silence was  a peaceful one.

 

After a while, Hawke remembered something that he’d always found curious. There was no way to tell when the next time was that he would be able to enjoy some alone time with his favorite elf, so he thought it best to take full advantage of the time he had now. “Fenris,” Hawke prodded gently to wake him from his thoughts. “I always wondered about the favor around your wrist.” He held up his own right hand, pointing at his wrist with his left. “I did not place it there, yet you guard that scrap of fabric as if it is precious to you. I found the old shirt you tore that strip from, and I wanted to ask you…why?” Hawke was familiar with the concept of wearing a lover’s favor, of course, but to his knowledge, that wasn’t the way such things were normally conducted.

 

Once, after a particularly long and filthy battle with a group of apostates, that had turned into another battle with a nest of hungry giant spiders, Hawke and his party had found a small stream to camp near, too exhausted to make the return journey that day. When Merrill and Aveline had fallen asleep, and Hawke had taken up his post for first watch, he’d spied on Fenris as the elf knelt beside the stream, carefully untying the red fabric from his wrist and washing it clean in the running water. Fenris had dried it for a few moments by the fire before replacing it on his wrist, almost reverently, hands so graceful that Hawke found himself hypnotized by watching him. It was then that Fenris had shot a glance at Hawke, the light of the fire like stars in his eyes. Embarrassed to be playing voyeur, Hawke had looked elsewhere. They hadn’t spoken of that night, nor had Hawke mentioned the favor since. Until now.

  
  


Fenris paused in his steps at Hawke’s question.  He knew Hawke had seen him cleaning the favor, but he chose to make no mention of it then, and for that Fenris was grateful. The elf sighed, shifting his feet as he looked out at the murky waters below them.  

 

"I… apologize for ruining one of your shirts, Hawke," Fenris said, flicking his eyes back to his companion momentarily. "It was one I hadn’t seen you wear recently, so I deemed it safe enough for such a purpose."  He began to fidget with the cloth around his wrist, almost unconsciously as he spoke.  He continued  wryly, and with a chuckle, "I had rather hoped you would not ask, though knowing you, that was probably too much to hope for."

 

Fenris looked out at the coast again, burying his toes in the sand in an attempt not to pace. Hawke at least deserved an explanation of why the elf damaged one of his shirts, if nothing more.  He cleared his throat, and began again.

 

"In Tevinter, there is a… custom," the elf started, his halting speech speaking volumes of his discomfort. Fenris cleared his throat again, face coloring a brilliant shade of vermillion as he fought to say the next words.  "When you accept someone as the master of your heart, you tie a red ribbon or cloth of some sort around your wrist to signify their hold on you.  Usually," he admitted,  "the favor is given, from something that the giver owns.  My actions have deviated somewhat from the traditional way it is carried out.  I felt it necessary to show that even though we are no longer together, I am... still yours."  His voice had gradually decreased in volume the longer he spoke, until by the time he finished, his voice was no more than a whisper.

  
  


Of all of the things Hawke had expected to hear, this had to be near the bottom of the list. What had first seemed like a gesture of fondness turned out to be much more meaningful, so much more profound than Hawke could have imagined. What could he say, when faced with such sentiment? What words would do justice to all of the things Hawke was feeling, all of the things Fenris brought out in him?

 

“I don’t care about the shirt,” Hawke blurted, his mouth moving with precious little direction from his brain. “Damn it. That isn’t what I meant to say. Fenris, you…” Hawke scratched at his beard, eyes searching the coastline as if it would grant him the words to explain exactly how he felt. “You honor me. I’m not certain I deserve your loyalty, after all I’ve done. But when I see that scrap of my old shirt wound around your wrist, the pride I feel is indescribable.” Finally, he turned from the water and looked at his companion, searching his face to see if his meaning was sinking in. “Nothing could mean more to me than the fact that you still carry me in your heart.”

 

Despite the blood still drying on Fenris’ skin, and the fact that they were both gritty with sand and dirt, Hawke curled his arms around the elf, pressing them together in a too-brief hug. “If you’re trying to keep your distance from me, Ser Elf, you’re doing a rotten job of encouraging me to stay away,” Hawke warned teasingly.

 

“Come on. We’ve got to hurry if we want baths before nightfall.” He was grinning like a fool and knew it, but who was there to see it besides the very man who’d inspired it? The ache in his muscles and heavy tiredness in his head had all but disappeared, burned away by the hopeful light that Fenris had offered, perhaps unknowingly.

  
  


The desire to kiss Hawke once more was a physical ache in his chest as the mage drew him close. The warmth of Hawke’s embrace was something he had not thought to receive again once he had left.  As Hawke drew away and ushered them onward, he felt a smile pulling his lips up at the corners.

He did find it increasingly difficult to keep up his guard around Hawke, his inner thoughts coming from his mouth as a compulsion instead. Fenris realized that he would have to do a better job of it if he was to maintain such a distance, and while he still felt it necessary, the task slowly became more and more of a struggle.  He enjoyed knowing that he was the reason for Hawke’s smile, that his words had put the bounce in Hawke’s step, as ill advised as it was.

Putting such thoughts out of his mind for the moment, he trailed after Hawke, finding himself greatly looking forward to the first opportunity in years he would have to enjoy a warm bath.

 


	2. A Bath and A Decision

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fen and Hawke bathe (separately), and Fenris panics.

Satisfied that he’d at least convinced Fenris to have a soak, Hawke decided to ease off for now. His companion could be pushed only so far into intimacy before he would suffer no more attention, and Hawke didn’t want to risk getting him to that point. That didn’t mean that he couldn’t enjoy the sensation of Fenris’ eyes on him. He briefly wondered if Fenris knew exactly how sharp and hungry his eyes were when he looked at Hawke, when he thought he couldn’t be seen in turn.

Fenris’ blatant attempt at finding a safe topic of conversation had Hawke hiding a chuckle. He knew his prickly elf wouldn’t appreciate being laughed at. “Indeed, it has been brisk lately. Nice to get out of the city just the same. I love it out here, have I ever told you?” Hawke looked out at the vast expanse of the coast, feeling for all the world like he could pitch himself off the edge and swim to the nearest sunken vessel, just to see what secrets it might hold. “We just left an entire cavern filled with so much death, Fenris. But out here…” Hawke took a deep breath and let it out slowly, tilting his face up toward the sky. “It just smells clean. Fresh. Getting Kirkwall out of my lungs is nearly reward enough for dragging myself out here.”

He realized then that he’d stopped walking while he thought, and hurried to correct that, taking a few hasty steps. “How is it for you? The fine sand on your feet must certainly feel better than the broken cobblestones in the city, or the sludge of Darktown.”

 

Fenris had been giving Hawke sidelong glances since they left the cave, an attempt at discretion. It was fascinating to watch him talk, to see the emotions play over his face as they came to him, rather than keeping them hidden, as he himself did.

When Hawke asked about his feet, he let out a soft laugh.

"Other than the occasional rock, I do much prefer the soft sands of the Coast. ….The weather here reminds me of a time long ago, that I can’t quite recall…" Fenris trailed off, a thoughtful expression pulling his brows together. That seemed to be happening more and more lately. Since that night with Hawke, it seemed as if something had unlocked inside his mind. Smaller, insignificant memories tickled at his subconscious, some returning, some just teasing. It was equal parts maddening and thrilling.  
He trailed behind Hawke, unaware of his own silence as he lost himself in pondering.

 

It seemed that The Wounded Coast called the introspection out in man and elf alike. Hawke let the silence ride for a few moments, enjoying the bit of quiet for what it was. This was a rarity in his line of work. There was always someone to listen to, some complaint to entertain, a request that needed seeing to. Even the constant chatter from his companions could grate on Hawke’s nerves after a long battle. With Fenris, though, that never seemed to happen. Hawke was happy to listen to him speak for as long as he wished to do so, and when they both fell into their own thoughts, the silence was a peaceful one.

After a while, Hawke remembered something that he’d always found curious. There was no way to tell when the next time was that he would be able to enjoy some alone time with his favorite elf, so he thought it best to take full advantage of the time he had now. “Fenris,” Hawke prodded gently to wake him from his thoughts. “I always wondered about the favor around your wrist.” He held up his own right hand, pointing at his wrist with his left. “I did not place it there, yet you guard that scrap of fabric as if it is precious to you. I found the old shirt you tore that strip from, and I wanted to ask you…why?” Hawke was familiar with the concept of wearing a lover’s favor, of course, but to his knowledge, that wasn’t the way such things were normally conducted.

Once, after a particularly long and filthy battle with a group of apostates, that had turned into another battle with a nest of hungry giant spiders, Hawke and his party had found a small stream to camp near, too exhausted to make the return journey that day. When Merrill and Aveline had fallen asleep, and Hawke had taken up his post for first watch, he’d spied on Fenris as the elf knelt beside the stream, carefully untying the red fabric from his wrist and washing it clean in the running water. Fenris had dried it for a few moments by the fire before replacing it on his wrist, almost reverently, hands so graceful that Hawke found himself hypnotized by watching him. It was then that Fenris had shot a glance at Hawke, the light of the fire like stars in his eyes. Embarrassed to be playing voyeur, Hawke had looked elsewhere. They hadn’t spoken of that night, nor had Hawke mentioned the favor since. Until now.

 

Fenris paused in his steps at Hawke’s question. He knew Hawke had seen him cleaning the favor, but he chose to make no mention of it then, and for that Fenris was grateful. The elf sighed, shifting his feet as he looked out at the murky waters below them.

"I… apologize for ruining one of your shirts, Hawke," Fenris said, flicking his eyes back to his companion momentarily. "It was one I hadn’t seen you wear recently, so I deemed it safe enough for such a purpose." He began to fidget with the cloth around his wrist, almost unconsciously as he spoke. He continued wryly, and with a chuckle, "I had rather hoped you would not ask, though knowing you, that was probably too much to hope for."

Fenris looked out at the coast again, burying his toes in the sand in an attempt not to pace. Hawke at least deserved an explanation of why the elf damaged one of his shirts, if nothing more. He cleared his throat, and began again.

"In Tevinter, there is a… custom," the elf started, his halting speech speaking volumes of his discomfort. Fenris cleared his throat again, face coloring a brilliant shade of vermillion as he fought to say the next words. "When you accept someone as the master of your heart, you tie a red ribbon about your wrist to signify their hold on you. Usually," he admitted, "the favor is given, from something that the giver owns. My actions have deviated somewhat from the traditional way it is carried out. I felt it necessary to show that even though we are no longer together, I am still yours." His voice had gradually decreased in volume the longer he spoke, until by the time he finished, his voice was no more than a whisper.

 

Of all of the things Hawke had expected to hear, this had to be near the bottom of the list. What had first seemed like a gesture of fondness turned out to be much more meaningful, so much more profound than Hawke could have imagined. What could he say, when faced with such sentiment? What words would do justice to all of the things Hawke was feeling, all of the things Fenris brought out in him?

“I don’t care about the shirt,” Hawke blurted, his mouth moving with precious little direction from his brain. “Damn it. That isn’t what I meant to say. Fenris, you…” Hawke scratched at his beard, eyes searching the coastline as if it would grant him the words to explain exactly how he felt. “You honor me. I’m not certain I deserve your loyalty, after all I’ve done. But when I see that scrap of my old shirt wound around your wrist, the pride I feel is indescribable.” Finally, he turned from the water and looked at his companion, searching his face to see if his meaning was sinking in. “Nothing could mean more to me than the fact that you still carry me in your heart.”

Despite the blood still drying on Fenris’ skin, and the fact that they were both gritty with sand and dirt, Hawke curled his arms around the elf, pressing them together in a too-brief hug. “If you’re trying to keep your distance from me, Ser Elf, you’re doing a rotten job of encouraging me to stay away,” Hawke warned teasingly.

“Come on. We’ve got to hurry if we want baths before nightfall.” He was grinning like a fool and knew it, but who was there to see it besides the very man who’d inspired it? The ache in his muscles and heavy tiredness in his head had all but disappeared, burned away by the hopeful light that Fenris had offered, perhaps unknowingly.

 

The desire to kiss Hawke once more was a physical ache in his chest as the mage drew him close. The warmth of Hawke’s embrace was something he had not thought to receive again once he had left. As Hawke drew away and ushered them onward, he felt a smile pulling his lips up at the corners.

He did find it increasingly difficult to keep up his guard around Hawke, his inner thoughts coming from his mouth as a compulsion instead. Fenris realized that he would have to do a better job of it if he was to maintain such a distance, and while he still felt it necessary, the task slowly became more and more of a struggle. He enjoyed knowing that he was the reason for Hawke’s smile, that his words had put the bounce in Hawke’s step, as ill advised as it was.

Putting such thoughts out of his mind for the moment, he trailed after Hawke, finding himself greatly looking forward to the first opportunity in years he would have to enjoy a warm bath.

There was a heavy darkness that seemed to form a barrier around the entirety of Kirkwall. Much was wrong with this place, and the longer Hawke lived there, the more sensitive he got to it, the more aware he became of the corruption that ran to the city’s roots. He never said it, but coming back after the fresh air and freedom of the coast, or the heights and scrubby vegetation of the mountains always dropped his mood, just a bit.

Buoyed up by the confession Fenris had just made, Hawke’s mood was sky-high and arrow proof, the damp stink of Kirkwall going almost unnoticed as they entered city limits. He was humming tunelessly under his breath, shooting pleased smiles at every curious face that they passed on the way back to the estate.

Hawke knew that it was a strange picture he made, strolling through Hightown with a blood-spattered elf at his side, both of them filthy and worse for wear. As usual, he couldn’t be bothered to consider what anyone thought of the company the Champion kept. Fenris cared for him, and if he asked, Hawke would gladly strip to his skin in the Hightown marketplace and declare his joy for everyone to witness.

“Welcome home, messere! I trust your mission went well?” Bodahn’s cheerful greeting rang through the room as Hawke entered his home.

“Thank you, Bodahn, yes. It was standard fare, ousting a pack of slaver scum from one of their little hidey-holes.” He gestured behind him to Fenris. “As you can see, both of us are in desperate need of a wash.” Bodahn hurried off to make that happen, a stream of pleasant chatter fading off into the distance as he left.

“It’ll just be a few minutes,” Hawke said with a glance at Fenris, moving to the table where his missives tended to pile up in his absence. Thankfully, the only new message that had arrived was a friendly note from a grateful person that he’d gotten out of some trouble with the Templars a few months back. He was happy to see that the girl was doing alright. Hawke worried, sometimes, that people were getting snatched up the second he turned his back. At times, he did end up having to save the same person from danger multiple times. When he got a letter like this one, letting him know that the people he helped were living safe and peaceful lives, he could believe that his efforts had meaning.

He’d been standing there quietly for a few minutes when he heard Fenris shifting restlessly behind him, the soft sound snapping him from his daze. “Would you like something to eat before the bath? Or we could sit down to a meal when we’re both refreshed.” Hawke tried to sneak in the idea of having dinner together, as if Fenris wouldn’t notice the invitation and object to spending an extended period of time in Hawke’s company, just the two of them.

 

The elven warrior had noticed with amusement and trepidation alike that Hawke was in possibly the finest spirits he’d ever seen the man as they made their way to his estate in Hightown. Even passersby were casting curious looks at their Champion’s unusually fair mood.  
With each step closer to Hawke’s home, Fenris, thoughts of tension and distance temporarily forgotten, felt his own mood improve at the thought of the warm, clean bath that would shortly follow their arrival.

Almost immediately after the pair walked into the house, Hawke had sent Bodahn off to make their baths ready, and Fenris found himself with nothing to do. Hawke had been shuffling through the papers on his desk with his back turned, and rather than eye the man’s backside as he was tempted to, instead Fenris shifted his weight on his feet and began picking again at the blood on his armor.

It was then that Hawke spoke, and his stomach dropped slightly.

Fenris opened his mouth to politely decline the offer, but at the mention of food his traitorous stomach gave a mighty growl that reverberated inside his armor. His cheeks colored, and the elf looked at his feet and said gruffly, “I should like to bathe first, if it is all the same to you.”

There was no way he could get out of it after such a display; he’d look a fool.

Hawke laughed softly, and murmured some form of assent. Shortly after, Bodahn returned and showed Fenris to the room where he would be bathing; he was grateful the dwarf had drew Fenris his own, for Hawke made no mention of the arrangement they agreed on.

As the door clicked shut behind him, Fenris shucked off his armor unceremoniously, bit by bit until he was standing in his smallclothes. He quickly stripped them off as well and eased into the tub. His eyes drifted closed in pleasure, and a soft groan of appreciation fell from his lips as he sank into the warm water. He simply sat with his eyes closed for several long moments, allowing himself this simple pleasure that he had so long been denied. As he lathered up his hands and began slowly scrubbing at the dirt and sand and caked-on blood, Fenris’ thoughts turned to the invitation that Hawke had so casually thrown his way. The longer he pondered, the more uneasy he became at the thought. He had intended to keep a distance, and here he was, bathing in Hawke’s home!

Fenris angrily splashed his face, scrubbing agitatedly at his skin. Blast it all. He couldn’t stay for dinner. That was tantamount to a date!

 _I can’t do this_ , he thought to himself with no small amount of disgust lacing his inner dialogue. _Blast it, I can’t…_

 

" _Malum_!" He spat at himself, sloshing water across the floor in his haste as he scrambled from the tub. He shoved his legs through each hole of his smallclothes before shoddily attempting to gather up his armor, stuffing it into his undershirt like a bag. He hefted the uncomfortable package in his arms, cracking the door open slightly to see that the way through the hall to the front door was clear. With inhuman grace and stealth, he crept through the manor and to the front door, grateful beyond measure that for once, both Sandal and Bodahn were elsewhere in the house. His hand was on the front knob when Fenris heard a low growl from behind him.  His heart sank.  He turned as quickly as he could without giving the dog a start, and gave him a piteous look.

 

“Please," Fenris whispered imploringly, almost brokenly at the dog. "I can’t do this. I can’t."  Dog tilted his head, a soft whine escaping his throat rather than the alerting bark that Fenris had feared. "Life is simple for a dog," Fenris said bitterly.  "It’s not so simple for the rest of us, unfortunately."  Dog sat back on his haunches and, with eyes full of pity, let out a very quiet, low howl of sadness.  Fenris swallowed the lump in his throat and left, the door to Hawke’s manor clicking shut behind him with a saddening sense of finality.  He sprinted the rest of the way home in his smallclothes, threw his armor in a heap at the door, and after shoving himself into clean linens, sat heavily on the bench by the fire and put his head in his hands. The weight of what he had just done, again, threatened to consume him.  Hawke would surely hate him after this.  And why not?

 

 _This is what you wanted_ , Fenris reminded himself darkly. _It’s better this way._

 

It was only after all this that Fenris realized he had left his sword, blood-spattered and frayed, propped up against the wall next to his tub.

 

_Fuck._

 

 


	3. Hawke's Discovery and Confrontation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke finds out Fen ditched him, gets drunk, and confronts him.

Before Hawke had gone upstairs to his own bath, he’d pulled Bodahn aside and given him hushed instructions for dinner. No fish, as Fenris had made no secret of hating it. Their place settings should be close to one another, intimate but not intimidatingly so. Soft lighting, good wine, and a refreshing dessert were all a part of Hawke’s plans to carry this night as far as he could, to coax Fenris’ affections to the surface once again and remind him how good things could be when they were together. Fenris had given Hawke the sweetest of gifts on their journey home; the hope their relationship could be saved, despite all the hardships they had already faced.

 

With thoughts of the absolutely superb example of elven beauty just a few rooms away on his mind, it was little wonder that Hawke found his hands wandering in the bath. The heat of the water had soothed away most of his aches and pains, relaxing all but the most stubbornly enthusiastic part of him. Aching with the longing that he’d been trying not to feel for the last several months, Hawke couldn’t resist giving his erection one long stroke, huffing out a sharp breath at the immediate surge of pleasure. He was sorely tempted to bring himself with a few quick and dirty glides of his hand, but he had something better in mind. “Patience,” Hawke reminded both himself and his ever-more-insistent erection, forcing his hands to grip the edges of the bath instead. “Much sweeter rewards lie just ahead.”

 

The battle for self-control was won, and by the time Hawke was clean and had soaked a while, he was feeling better. Less wild. It shocked him how strongly Fenris could affect him, without even being in the room. If the elf ever realized how tightly he held Hawke’s leash, he was doomed.

 

Drying himself off, Hawke slipped out of the bath to go dress for dinner, towel wrapped securely around his waist. He glanced down the hallway toward the second bathing chamber. Hearing nothing, Hawke gathered that Fenris must be enjoying his soak, and that pleased Hawke more than he could say. Fenris saw so little value in the simple pleasures that Hawke so enjoyed, and the mage had made it his mission to see that Fenris began to treat himself more kindly. This was just a necessary first step.

 

On a whim, Hawke decided to dress in the very shirt they’d been discussing earlier, the ragged tear on the bottom making him smile now, fingers tracing the frayed fabric. The trousers he pulled on were simple linen, modest and plain. Fenris wouldn’t be having dinner with the richly dressed Champion tonight. Tonight, Hawke would just be himself, just a man who was desperately in love.  

 

He came downstairs to see no sign of Bodahn or Sandal, correctly judging that Bodahn had seen to it they made themselves scarce. Hawke was grateful to have a friend managing his household that knew his wishes so well. The dining table was set, a few candles lit, the meal fresh and hot and smelling like the best dream the Fade could conjure. Hawke looked closer and saw that the offering was of chicken and roasted vegetables, an artful presentation of potatoes nestling the meat that left Hawke wondering how it even came to be there. He could roast meat over a fire, but a cook, Hawke was not.

 

Pouring himself a glass of wine, Hawke seated himself at the head of the table to wait for Fenris to join him. One glass turned into two, and the food was chilling on the plates before it occurred to Hawke to go upstairs and make sure his elf hadn’t fallen asleep and drowned in the bath. “Fenris?” he called from outside the door. “Love, are you nearly finished?” When no response was forthcoming, Hawke entered the room, stopping short when he found it empty. No, not empty. Fenris’ sword leaned against the wall, the sharp edge catching the light. Hawke knew that Fenris would never abandon his precious weapon, not unless he had to.

 

Kidnapping? No, he would have heard the struggle. Then why…? It dawned on Hawke all at once. Fenris had run from him, left him all over again, and without a word. Fenris had left the sword behind because he was in too much of a hurry to dress, and he couldn’t possibly carry the blade and his clothes without getting caught sneaking out.

 

The first thing Hawke felt was disbelief. There had to be some mistake, some misunderstanding here. Fenris wouldn’t do this to him. Not again. Not after all he’d said on the Wounded Coast. But what other explanation could there be? Such pain gripped his heart that Hawke was convinced he couldn’t breathe. If Fenris had truly abandoned him a second time, Hawke wasn’t sure he was fond of breathing any longer. Stumbling back downstairs in a fog, he made straight for the dining room again, snatching up the wine bottle and draining the contents with several angry swallows. Lobbing the empty bottle into the fireplace just to hear it shatter, Hawke left his estate, the cool night air harsh on his overwarm face.

 

He hesitated outside the door, wanting so much to go to Fenris’ mansion, to demand that he explain what Hawke had done wrong, what he could do better, why Fenris had left. But obviously, Fenris had no desire to see him, and Hawke refused  to beg. Instead, he turned toward Lowtown, making his way to the Hanged Man, where he proceeded to get as thoroughly drunk as he could manage on the coin he had with him at the time.

 

Hours later, Hawke was banging on the door he’d turned from earlier, hand thudding heavily on the entrance to Fenris’ home. He knew that he could get in if he wanted to, but for the life of him, Hawke couldn’t quite remember how to get the door open without setting off one of the many booby-traps Fenris had Isabela set for protection. “Fenris!” Hawke slurred, leaning bodily against the door. “Get out here. We’ve got a talk! That needs to be had! Between us!” It was the middle of the night, though one never would have guessed that to hear the loud bellow of Hawke’s voice echoing across the Hightown courtyards.

  
  


The past few hours had crawled. Sleep would not come to him, and even a bottle (or three) of Aggregio didn’t sound tempting.  So Fenris remained where he sat, festering in his own self pity and hatred.  He imagined Hawke finding his room empty, how hurt he must have been. How angry.

 

Maybe he should move to Rivain.

 

The thought had just flitted across his mind when he heard a horrid pounding at his door. Fenris leapt to his feet, thinking an attack, but his heart dropped like a stone to the bowels of the earth when he heard Hawke’s slurred yells bounce off the walls.

 

” _Festis bei umo cana varum_ ,” Fenris whispered in something akin to horror.  His feet remained firmly planted where they were, and he hoped that Hawke would eventually wander back home in a drunken haze.

 

 **Crash**. It didn’t seem that was likely, as he heard a window shatter and a trap go off from across the mansion, presumably his front hall.  Leave it to the Champion of Kirkwall to throw rocks at his lover’s house.

 _Fuck_. Fenris bolted to the door and yanked it open, finding, to his dread, a very angry and a possibly even drunker Hawke glowering at him with bloodshot eyes.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Aside: Malum means ‘fuck’ in Tevene, and ‘Festis bei umo cana varum translates to “I’m going to the dogs,” or “I’m fucked.”


	4. A Drunken Rant and A Kind-of Makeup

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke is drunk. He and Fenris talk. Fen apologizes.

  
"Hawke, I-" Fenris started, but he didn’t get the chance to finish whatever excuse he had been about to say. 

“ **YOU**.” Hawke wobbled uncertainly before jabbing his finger into the center of Fenris’ chest. “You _coward_.” He hadn’t lowered his volume in the slightest, nor did he seem particularly inclined to come into Fenris’ mansion, apparently content to have the entire row in front of the doubtlessly watching, gossip-hungry neighbors. Drunken, jilted Champion turning up at his elven lover’s doorstep in the middle of the night? The story would be all over the city by dawn.

 

“I was a fool,” Hawke hissed, “To ever believe you would change. To ever even _think_ we had a chance. I thought I could make you happy, Fenris.” His eyes dropped to the ground, welling with moisture.

 

“I thought that if I could make you feel half as much joy as I did, we could build a life. Together.” Angrily swiping at his eyes as they overflowed, the mage struck  the doorframe with his fist, bloodying the tender skin of his knuckles. “ _You could have told me_!! If you didn’t want me, why did you act like…why did you _pretend_?”

Drink had loosened Hawke’s tongue, every dark thought, every twisted fear that he’d been suffering spilling forth in a rush, impossible to deny or hold back. “I understood when you left that first night. I knew how you suffered. But you’ve grown cruel in your time away from me, Fenris.” Like the wolf the elf had been named for, he’d seen the softness of Hawke’s heart. He’d torn it wide open. And he’d devoured everything Hawke had to give, leaving him broken, raw, and bleeding in the aftermath.

 

Fenris would have been prepared for Hawke’s anger. He expected it, and had hoped for it.

But the volume of the emotions and words Hawke had hurled at him struck like physical blows, and he actually staggered back a few steps under their weight.

Since that night, he had attempted to keep Hawke at arm’s distance. He had hoped to snuff the growing affection he knew was blooming in Hawke’s heart. He had meant to suffer this alone; Fenris knew there was no going back for him, no moving on. He did not wish the same fate for Hawke, so he kept trying to maintain distance.  If Hawke had remained angry during this encounter, Fenris could have done what he needed to, could have said what needed to be said to make sure Hawke didn’t follow him down this route, but the anguish in the voice of the obviously broken man before him…

 

"You’re right," Fenris blurted, sorrow creeping into his tone.  At the flash of pain of confirmation in Hawke’s eyes, Fenris realized the man thought he’d been referring to the last thing the mage said. He hastily added, "I am a coward. At first, it was fear of my memories, and fear of their loss. Then it became fear over your power over me.  I’ll make up my mind about something, but one word from you and I’m making the complete opposite.  I try to keep you away, but I can’t help blurting out my feelings around you.  I am as much of a slave to you as I was to Danarius," the elf said softly. "Though your hold on me is unlike any of those experiences. It frightens me, but perhaps that is why I love you that much harder.  Because I know that though I am at your whim, you would never abuse me."  Unsconsciously, Fenris brought up his hand to stroke Hawke’s cheek, but after a moment’s hesitation, let it drop back at his side.

"Think what you wish of me, Hawke, but I am _not_ a liar. I have never spoken falsely of the way I feel for you.  I _do_  want you, Hawke. More than I have ever wanted anything or anyone.” Fenris spoke fiercely, stepping into Hawke’s personal space while letting the passion of his gaze bore into Hawke’s. “I should have asked your forgiveness long ago for leaving that night, and I apologize for every moment of suffering thereafter that I have caused you.  Whatever you wish of me to make this right, I will do it. Tell me to go, and I shall, or take me in your arms now.  Either way, this distance ends tonight.”

 

Hawke was drunk enough that he had trouble following the conversation; several times opening his mouth to yell again, thinking Fenris was telling him off. Each time, a few hasty words from the elf managed to calm him down. It seemed Fenris had a talent for knowing when he needed to speed his speech to avoid another emotional explosion from the mage before him. Hawke put his focus on the words falling from Fenris’ shapely lips, leaning heavily against the doorframe as the world began to spin wildly. He was beginning to regret the drinking.

This experience had scoured Hawke out, the raw ache in his chest throbbing dully with every ragged breath. Part of him understood exactly how difficult all of this was for Fenris, how much he was struggling to do the right thing, not just for himself, but for both of them. Hawke could appreciate that, he was flattered by the elf trying to protect him. If only it didn’t hurt so bloody much, it would have been an idea solution to a complicated problem.

But it did hurt. And Hawke was so bone-tired of being hurt, of being lonely when Fenris wasn’t near and he had no guarantee of when he’d see him again.

 

“My feelings for you, Fenris, they…they _torment_ me.” Hawke made an aborted grab for Fenris’ shoulder as the ground seemed to pitch beneath him, weakening his legs. The crack of his knees on the stone of the ground should have hurt, but the mage felt nothing, leaning against long, solidly muscled legs and blinking muzzily upward. “Do you know what they tease me with, the demons of the Fade? They show me _you_. It is _always_ you. They offer me your love, your devotion, some slimy Desire demon wearing your skin and offering me my fondest dreams. Every night I refuse, and every morning, when I wake, I hate myself for saying no.”

He shuffled backward, falling dizzily into the entryway. “I don’t want you to go, Fenris. I love you. Stubborn, broody, perfect elf.” Hawke grabbed at Fenris’ legs in a clumsy hug, pressing his face into Fenris’ thigh.

 

Fenris looked skyward for a moment and allowed himself a very wide grin; Hawke was very cute when he was drunk. He then slowly knelt down beside the drunk man so as not to knee him in the face, and kissed him tenderly on the forehead.

 

"Then I shall stay, and give your demons no more to torment you with," he murmured into Hawke’s ear.  After a moment of just being near his mage, he attempted to gather the man in his arms, but picking up deadweight was a trial, even for Fenris.

 

"Hawke, do you think you can stand? I should like to help you inside, to the bed if I can."  He glanced sidelong at Hawke with an subdued smile twitching his lips. "You’re very drunk," Fenris deadpanned.

 

“I’m not drunk,” Hawke slurred in protest. “It’s you, _you’re_ drunk.” He made an attempt to rise and promptly landed back on the ground between Fenris’ knees. “I am fine right here, thank you. Bring a blanket, your mansion is freezing.” True as that probably was, the chill Hawke was feeling likely had something to do with the fact that his long legs were currently dangling out the open door into the night.

 

The thin linen he was wearing did nothing to protect Hawke from the cold, the artificial warmth of the alcohol in his blood beginning to fade. “Take me to bed, if that’s really on offer,” he decided, rolling onto his side and managing to sit up. “I wanted to take you to bed earlier, did you know? I had it all planned out. I was going to be so careful,” Hawke admitted wistfully, gesturing wildly with his hands as if he could paint the image in his mind for Fenris to see. “I was going to please you so well you’d never leave again.”

 

"I am truly sorry, Hawke," Fenris said, feeling both ashamed and amused at the same time by Hawke’s drunken antics.  "Perhaps once you have rested, and your head stops pounding in the morning, we can try again?

 

"I’m going to pick you up now, Hawke, alright?" Fenris asked, shifting his weight to help with the process.

 

He crouched next to Hawke, taking a firm grip of his middle after throwing Hawke’s arms around his neck and, after much struggling, grunting and fumbling, hefted the drunken mage over his shoulder as gently as possible. Making his way through the main hall as lithely as possible so as not to jostle Hawke overmuch, he couldn’t resist a gentle yet firm squeeze of the ass that was so nicely displayed across his shoulder.  He chuckled at the unceremonious noise Hawke made behind him.  Before long, they were in Fenris’ bedroom, and the elf deposited Hawke as gently as possible onto the bed.

 

"I am going to get some water and rags," Fenris murmured softly as he stood.  He regarded Hawke for a moment, and added dryly, "and perhaps a bucket."

 

“Woop. Is the ground supposed to be falling away?” Hawke, draped over Fenris’ shoulder as he was, could only lie limply and allow himself to be carried about like a sack of grain. “Fenris, the ground. Why aren’t you more concerned about this!?” The elf completely ignored Hawke’s uncoordinated struggles, holding him in place with an ease that would have embarrassed Hawke had he been thinking clearly. The bed Fenris dropped him into smelled of the elf, the bright ice scent of lyrium and a pleasing, earthy note of green, growing things. Hawke hummed in contentment, rolling onto his stomach to press his face into the pillow, not caring that it severely hindered his ability to breathe.

 

“Bring a blanket. I’ll light the fire.” Hawke twisted around to see the fireplace, which wasn’t cooperating with him at all, dancing from side to side as it was. “Bloody fucking thing is possessed,” he muttered, trying and failing to summon a flame. “Anders did it, I’d put coin on it.”

 

With alarm, Fenris noticed what Hawke was trying to do, and quickly grabbed the mage’s hands before he could make another attempt.

 

"Hawke!" Fenris said firmly, "No magic. Understand? No.”  He eyed the man with concern and amusement, then muttered to himself “you’ll burn my house to the ground.”

 

He got back up to fetch the items he mentioned, but had to reach back down to stop Hawke from trying to light the fire again.

 

"Hawke, so help me, I will bind your hands if I must," he growled out in equal measures frustration and amusement.

 

He stood once more to fetch the items he needed, hoping Hawke wouldn’t find a way to burn down the manor in his absence.

 

Hawke didn’t see the problem in performing a spell he’d done perfectly a thousand times, but his attempts to be helpful seemed to be causing Fenris some kind of distress. Perhaps if he moved more slowly, Fenris could see what he was doing, and he wouldn’t have such objections. Hawke began to craft the spell as slowly as he could, with exaggerated motions that surely, the elf could follow. That turned out not to satisfy him at all, as Hawke found his hands clasped firmly in Fenris’ iron grip.

 

The threat of bondage captured Hawke’s attention, erasing all thoughts of the fireplace from his mind. His mind felt stuffed with feathers, but still turned those possibilities over, managing to craft a rather appealing scenario. He was so enthralled by it that he barely registered the elf’s absence, and before he could lose interest and move on to another subject, Fenris was back at his bedside.

 

“Is that what you like, then? Do you want to tie me up, Ser Elf? Ravish me, your willing, helpless captive?” With an overblown sigh that could almost be described as maidenly, Hawke dropped back to the bed, feigning a swoon. “Do what you must! I won’t struggle.” He opened his eyes with a frown, then added, “Unless you’d rather I struggle a _little_.”

 

Fenris had no choice but to chuckle at the display Hawke was making, shaking his head as he threw a blanket across the man, going so far as to tuck him in.  

 

"Perhaps another night, Hawke, we can continue this discussion," Fenris said with no small amount of amusement as he placed a damp cloth across Hawke’s forehead.  "For now, you should get some rest.  Or I really will have to restrain you."

 

Grabbing a chair from another room and setting it as close to the bed as he could, Fenris sat down with his legs crossed, and contented himself to watch over Hawke as he slept.

 

“Mm,” Hawke murmured agreement, needing little encouragement to relax and rest. He fought one hand free of the blanket and laid it warmly over Fenris’ knee. “Swear to me that you’ll be here when morning comes. I couldn’t bear it if you ran again."

 

He never heard Fenris’ answer, dropping swiftly into sleep as his body gave up the fight to remain conscious. Whether it was thanks to the alcohol dulling his senses or the soothing presence of the elf, Hawke enjoyed the fullest, most peaceful rest he’d had in weeks.

 

If only that had lasted.

 

 

 


	5. Hangovers and Fresh Starts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke has no memory of anything Fenris promised last night. It's even more difficult to talk to a sober Hawke than a drunk one.

Hawke awoke to a gorgeous day, the sunlight streaming through a ragged tear in the drapes painting cheery patterns on the floor of Fenris’ bedroom. “Oh, that’s hideous,” Hawke groaned, squeezing his eyes shut and covering them with his hands. The damage had been done, the light setting in motion a very small, very angry Darkspawn, whose only purpose was to swing a maul around the inside of Hawke’s head. “Maker, in your infinite wisdom and mercy,” he whispered, anything but the softest noises likely to further piss off the Darkspawn trapped in his skull. “If you should see fit to remove my head from my shoulders at once, I swear to leave everything I own to the Chantry.”

 

Stomach roiling, Hawke gathered what strength he could and cast a small healing spell, just enough to dull the agony rattling around in his brain to a manageable level. For the rest of his symptoms, he would need to see Anders. His fellow mage kept a stock of the herbs Hawke needed to banish this hangover for good. For not the first time, Hawke regretted not learning more about making his own potions. If he had, he could have solved his own problem by now.

 

Fenris remained vigilant throughout the night, exchanging the rags every time Hawke stirred, tucking down the blankets some when he seemed too warm in his slumber.

 

While sunlight had awoken Hawke enough to stir, Fenris was not so easily roused from his slumber.  Apparently during the night he had fallen asleep with his torso draped across Hawke’s lap, the rest of him still planted firmly in the chair he was seated in.  His expression was peaceful and scowl-free, and his lips parted softly as Fenris sighed in his sleep. One of his hands was firmly interlocked at the fingers with Hawke’s, and the other was draped carelessly about Hawke’s waist. At Hawke’s stirring, Fenris nuzzled into the source of the sound, but remained unconscious.

  
  


“That’s…odd,” Hawke mumbled when his head had calmed enough for him to notice the weight of a sleeping elf on his lap. Odd was putting it lightly. For Fenris to have fallen asleep with another person like this, and for the fact that he hadn’t snapped awake with a snarl the second Hawke spoke, he must have been awfully tired. Perhaps, somewhere deep down, Fenris truly did trust Hawke.

  
 _Not enough to stay_ , Hawke thought bitterly, the remembered pain of discovering Fenris had left sparking through his chest like ice. After that, the night was a blur. His throat ached, and beyond being hung over, Hawke could smell the stench of the piss-water ale they served at the Hanged Man all over him. Had he bathed in the stuff? He remembered his hurt at Fenris leaving, then sitting 

down to a few drinks, and precious little else after that. Obviously, something must have happened to see him greeting the dawn in Fenris’ bed, the elf himself sleeping peacefully partially atop him and clutching at his hand like a lifeline. What was Hawke supposed to do now? Did he wake Fenris and risk breaking the moment, or enjoy the intimacy a moment longer?

 

The ache in Hawke’s bladder decided for him. “Fenris. Wake up, before I make a mess in your bed. You won’t thank me for it if I do, I know that.” He nudged Fenris gently. The elf could be unpredictable when waking. More than once, he’d seen a flash of blue, aimed at whoever got the dangerous job of waking Fenris, on those rare occasions when the elf wasn’t up and ready to move before everyone else.

 

Fenris woke gently, slowly climbing his way toward consciousness as Hawke’s voice coaxed him awake.  He allowed himself, in his sleepy haze, a moment to simply enjoy the feel of another body.  Once he realized his situation, however, he jolted awake with a start, snapping back in his chair so hard he almost toppled over.

 

"Ah," he said sheepishly, an embarrassed flush creeping into his cheeks. "Hawke, you’re… awake then?"  Fenris took a moment to take in his companion’s expression.  The long and short of it; he looked like death warmed over. Concern touching his voice, he added, "Are you feeling alright? Do I need to get a remedy from the abomin- Anders?"

 

For once, Fenris tried to be nice about Anders, though he loathed him completely. Hawke looked decidedly more confused as time went by.

 

"Hawke…?"

 

It was all beginning to make an awful sort of sense, now. The bottom dropped out of Hawke’s stomach, and he scrubbed his hands over his face, so thoroughly sick of facing the same trials over and over that he could have screamed. “I have to admit, you almost had me. This is…very good. You’re learning.” Of all the visions the demons of the Fade had conjured up to tempt him, this was certainly the most realistic. But there were little things that didn’t fit, like Fenris having fallen asleep anywhere near Hawke. Waking up in the elf’s bed, when he’d never before been allowed there. The sudden attempt to tolerate Anders, when only loathing existed between Fenris and Hawke’s fellow mages.

 

The ever-present armor had even disappeared, and Fenris was so relaxed and handsome in his casual clothing, so gorgeously masculine, it sent a traitorous tendril of arousal curling through Hawke’s belly just to see him this way. He’d never have guessed that somehow, Fenris would look even stronger out of his armor than in it. The last time he’d convinced the elf to part with it, Hawke had been focused on rather more important things.

 

Forcing himself to remember that none of this was real, Hawke closed his eyes, turning his head away from the too-tempting picture Fenris made. “Leave me be, demon,” he said tiredly, already dreading the ripping headache he would no doubt wake to. “I’ve no patience for your tricks.”

Fenris looked blankly at Hawke, confusion firmly taking hold in his features.  

 

"Demon… I… What?" The elf tilted his head in a total lack of understanding, growing more uneasy with each passing second.  All at once, something Hawke said the previous night rang in his ears.

 

_Do you know what they tease me with, the demons of the Fade? They show me you. It is always you. They offer me your love, your devotion, some slimy Desire demon wearing your skin and offering me my fondest dreams._

 

"Oh, Hawke," his voice twisting in pain for the man before him, so clearly beaten down.  To think that a morning so simple as this would be Hawke’s greatest desire made Fenris’ heart ache with sorrow and happiness both.

 

"Hawke, this is no dream," he started, and it pained him to see the tired defeat and mistrust in Hawke’s eyes direct at him. "Look around you. Does this look like any other image the Fade has constructed for you?  Would the Fade give you such a horrendous ache between your ears? Would it smell so convincingly of the swill they call ale at that blasted pub?"  Fenris wrinkled his nose in displeasure.  "Really, though, you do smell horrid."

 

On a more somber note, Fenris hesitated a beat before asking, “Do you remember nothing of last night?  Many things were said between us.”

 

Could it be true? Could this be real? Hawke sat up, slowly to mind his head and the angry pitching of his stomach. As Fenris had said, the room was all sharp, well-defined edges and distinct, time-worn furnishings. There was none of the disconcerting fuzziness that the Fade always carried, no matter how well-crafted the dream proved to be. The stink of sweat and bad drink was clinging to Hawke’s clothes and skin, and the Fade tended not to smell of anything but lyrium and the spirits that dwelled there, should they draw close enough.

 

“I remember little,” Hawke admitted, conceding that he was truly awake, not trapped in another fantasy of the Fade. The implications of that, he couldn’t begin to consider, since he’d found Fenris sprawled in his lap, for all the world as if they were together once more. “After discovering that you’d left, I felt—“ _foolish, betrayed, like burning the entire city to ashes_ , “—Thirsty. So I had something to drink. Quite a bit to drink, if I’m being honest. I was yelling. Then I woke up here, and I’m reasonably certain, judging by the state of my head, that I am very close to death.”

 

Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, Hawke put his feet on the ground and ordered them to support his efforts to stand up. Apparently, his entire body had decided to rebel against him, as the first attempt he made at rising from the bed was less than successful. “Definitely not in the Fade,” he muttered.

 

Fenris surged forward and caught Hawke in his arms, allowing him to gently sink back onto the bed.

With a wry smile, he said, “perhaps not death, but you were _very_ inebriated when you came to my house.”  Regret touched his eyes, and Fenris said softly, “I am sorry for causing you such pain, Hawke.  I was a coward.” With a chuckle he added, “you even called me such.”

 

“Did I?” Hawke was a little proud that in his drunken state, he’d apparently spoken up for himself. “Perhaps I should drink more often, if the night ends with me in your bed.” He made a second bid for freedom from the mattress, and managed to keep his feet underneath him, where they belonged. “I’m going home to piss and bathe and vomit and probably die. If I don’t feel more human after all of that, I’ll crawl to Darktown to beg Tomwise for enough poison to kill me swiftly.”

Hawke groaned, rubbing at his temples. “I could visit Anders and get a remedy potion instead, but we’ll see where the day ends up. I’ll ask Orana to come help change your sheets and give them a wash.” He’d also see to it that she brought the warrior some breakfast. Too often, Fenris considered a few mouthfuls of wine an appropriate nourishment for the start of the day.

  
  


Fenris hesitated, feeling utterly lost at Hawke’s apparent hurry to be rid of him. He didn’t quite know how to proceed, so in the end he just blurted out, “I have most of those amenities here, Hawke.” When the mage turned to him, he looked away with a flush.  ”I don’t have heating, but that should be no problem for one with your talents,” he continued gruffly. “And I could get the potion from Anders while you tend to such things.” With Hawke’s eyes on him, Fenris crossed his arms and with much effort resisted the urge to fidget.

 

Fenris was utterly unused to asking for what he wanted. He wasn’t even sure what that was at this moment, other than he knew he didn’t want Hawke to leave.

  
  


Torn between indignant disbelief and warm amusement, Hawke snorted out a laugh, shaking his head before being brutally reminded why that was unwise. Fenris had some huge nerve to ask Hawke to stay, however indirectly and awkwardly he was doing so. After what had happened the night before, the mage was tempted to tell Fenris to take himself straight into the Void.

 

On the other hand, Hawke had known what he was getting into when he’d decided to pursue Fenris. He’d known before he began that it would be a long, difficult road. Fenris was still finding his footing in the new freedom he’d been given, and Hawke could attest that pasts were not easy things to escape, no matter how much one wanted to. The elf was clearly doing the best that he could with the conflicting needs he found himself facing—The need for independence weighed against the need to belong with someone, the need for freedom fighting the need for stability. Hawke would have to work on making him see that these didn’t necessarily have to be separate.

 

Leaving now would be a petty, childish act, and not at all worth the temporary sense of satisfaction Hawke might gain from giving Fenris a taste of what he’d been doing. Fenris had bravely reached out, even though it was clearly difficult for him. The least Hawke could do was reach back.

 

“After all of this, you still can’t look me in the eye and tell me what you want?” Hawke’s smile was tight with pain, but it was still a smile. “You couldn’t just say, ‘Hawke, I want you here, cancel all your plans at once,’ to which I would obediently reply, ‘why of course, Ser Elf, I’ll let Kirkwall know I’m not Champion-ing today.’ Not so hard to find the words, is it?” He came a step closer, but stopped, unwilling to get within smelling distance of Fenris when his scent was so offensive. “When will you learn, Fenris? You’re my king. All you need to do is speak, and you’ll have whatever you need from me.” Leaving the elf to ponder over that bit of information, Hawke slipped out of the room to finally empty his bladder, and draw and heat himself a bath.

 

 

Fenris blushed an excellent shade of vermillion as Hawke left the room. He actually stood there for a few moments in a daze before remembering he needed to run an errand for Hawke.

 

He made his way to the main hall, allowing his voice to carry through the house as he told Hawke, “I shall make my way to Darktown for your remedy, I will return shortly.”

 

The door clicked shut behind him, and Fenris swiftly made his way to Lowtown, descending into Darktown with a grimace. He did not look forward to speaking with the abomination again, but he had promised Hawke he would do whatever it took to make this right.

 

As he made his way to the clinic, Fenris pondered the situation he found himself in. Hawke remembered nothing of the night before, other than getting massively drunk after discovering that he had left. Which meant that he had no recollection whatsoever of what had been said between them.  Which also meant that Fenris would have to repeat many of the things he already struggled greatly to say.

 

Fenris was brought out of his thoughts by the doors of Anders’ clinic before him. He took a steadying sigh, reminded himself to be as unabrasive as possible, and pushed through the doors.  Anders looked up, then did a double-take as he realized it was in fact Fenris and not a refugee needing assistance. Animosity flashed across the man’s face, and Fenris braced himself.

 

"Come to further explain how much you hate me, elf?" Anders said with a sneer.  Fenris ground his teeth, clenching his fist before forcing himself to relax.

 

"Not today, mage, tempting though that may be.  I am here on Hawke’s behalf. He’s told me you have a remedy for a drinking binge?" Fenris couldn’t help letting a bit of irritation seep into his voice, but just enough seriousness in his demeanor that left Anders know he was in no mood for jokes or fighting.

 

Anders combed his hands through his hair and sighed.  ”Give me a moment.” The healer began sifting through his countless collection of herbs and essences, picking out three or four different jars before turning to his table. Fenris watched cluelessly as Anders ground up three pinches of this, two of that, four of this, before mixing it with a viscous looking fluid and pouring it into a small flask.  After a few moments of that, Anders held the flask out to Fenris, who pocketed it carefully.

 

"Tell Hawke not to make a habit of it, as this isn’t meant to be used every day. And it’s certainly no substitute for fluids and food."  Fenris nodded, and left before Anders could throw in any quips.

 

On the way back to his mansion, an idea came to him. He stopped by Hawke’s estate, and after a bit of awkward explaining to Bodahn about Hawke’s location, the dwarf brought back several loaves of bread and some meat wrapped carefully in a box, as well as a fresh change of clothing.  Fenris thanked him and made his way back to his own home.  He hoped that Hawke was still bathing; he hoped to set the table with the food in his arms before Hawke had finished.

 

Hawke nearly collapsed into the bath, risking drowning himself in the steaming water. With how he felt, it might have been easier to drown. The bath was much cleaner than Hawke had expected it to be. Though the mansion was run-down now, Fenris was apparently maintaining the areas he still needed to use. It wouldn’t matter much longer, once the two of them were living together. “Living together?” Hawke echoed his thought out loud, and then groaned. “A few rough words and a sweet look, and he’s really got me, damn it all. Pathetic, Hawke.” Miserably in love, Hawke slid lower in the tub, head disappearing beneath the water while sad little bubbles gently broke the surface.

 

He couldn’t help imagining what it might be like to wake up beside Fenris every morning, to see his weapon stored neatly beside Hawke’s staff, to see their clothing side by side in the wardrobe. Of course, Fenris would probably need to keep squatting in the mansion, to maintain his own space. They would fight, they were volatile, strong-willed men, and their opinions were wildly different on a few key issues. It would only help their relationship if they could have somewhere private and safe to go and be apart from one another, in order to air their frustrations. Even the thought of squabbling with Fenris over curtains or Dog or what to have for dinner made Hawke smile as he surfaced for air.

 

When he’d washed the stink of the night before off of himself, Hawke felt better, but not by much. He grumbled as he got out of the water, toweled himself dry, and considered the pile of clothing he’d just taken off. There were several mysterious stains on them that he hoped were just spilled ale, but he couldn’t bring himself to pick them up and put them on. Wrapping himself in a towel, Hawke poked his head out of the bathing chamber, sure he’d heard Fenris return, and hesitant to risk startling him with even partial nudity.

  
  


As quickly as possible, Fenris returned to the bedroom and deposited Hawke’s clean clothes on the bed before setting the food on the table in the corner.  Fenris cursed himself; he had forgotten plates. Doing the best he could with what he had, he attempted to make the table at least semi-presentable before making his way to the room Hawke still appeared to be in. He was going to knock, but stopped short when he saw Hawke’s head peek out of the doorframe.

 

"Ah, Hawke…" Fenris was still a little flustered from earlier; " _you are my king_ " kept running through his mind.  He cleared his throat and dug around the remedy Anders had given him, holding his hand out to Hawke. As Hawke took the flask from him, he also mentioned, "I also have a change of clothes for you. Shall I bring it to you, or…?" Fenris wasn’t actually sure what the other option was, and he felt himself blushing once more.  Hawke seemed to have a knack for turning his face varying shades of red.

“You are brilliant,” Hawke said sincerely, grabbing the cork of the flask in his teeth and yanking it free. He drained the contents quickly, pulling a face. “Ugh. It may be effective, but this remedy is vile.” It was already working, coolness sliding down his throat and settling soothingly into his stomach. Sighing with relief, Hawke smiled at Fenris. “You brought me a change of clothes as well? Aren’t I the lucky one?” Now that he smelled better, Hawke had no issues with taking Fenris into his arms and pressing a brief, teasing kiss to his lips. “I’ll get the clothes myself, since you’ve already seen me.” He found the redness in Fenris’ cheeks endearing, and the fact that such a man could still be made to blush was both sweet and surprising.

 

Assuming he’d find his clothes in the bedroom, Hawke headed there. He spied the food that Fenris had brought, and his heart melted just that much more. How was he supposed to stand against thoughtful, inviting, blushing Fenris? It was impossible! Hawke was doomed! Dressing quickly, he called out, “You can stop hovering in the hallway, I’m decent. You didn’t bring all this food just for me, did you?”

  
  


Being kissed by a mostly-naked, freshly bathed Hawke had not been on Fenris’ to-do list this morning, but as Hawke padded past him, he can’t say he minded. Yet another blush rising to his cheeks, he entered the room at Hawke’s permission.

 

"Most of it is for you, yes. But I saw no harm in sharing a meal together while making sure you get what you need," he said, reaching the table and taking a seat in the chair against the wall. Pushing Hawke’s healthy portion to the space across from him, Fenris asked, "Are you feeling any better?"

 

Fenris knew that they would soon need to talk about what happened last night, but he saw no need to darken the mood before eating.

 

Hawke sat down and began to tear his bread into pieces, a habit of his when he was hungry, but not entirely sure his stomach would support food. “I am beginning to feel better, but everything is still a bit…uncertain.” The pounding in his head had almost completely disappeared, and he was actually starting to think that perhaps if he just ate a few bits of bread, his stomach might finish settling. Hawke selected the smallest piece of his bread and took a tentative nibble.

 

When that caused no immediate negative effects, he took a larger bite, and before he knew it, Hawke had managed quite a bit of bread, much hungrier than he’d initially thought. “What are your plans for the day? Anything interesting?” Hawke was sure the messages were piling up at home, but after the night before, he was in no state to go traipsing all over the city in search of danger that needed quelling and wrongs that needed righting.

 

"I had rather hoped we could talk," Fenris said before tearing off a small chunk of bread and popping it into his mouth. "But I thought that would wait until we had both eaten and you felt a bit better. Other than that, I have no immediate concerns."

 

Fenris briefly considered mentioning a few of the books Isabela and Varric had lent him. Hawke had offered to teach him how to read once, and though at the time Fenris reacted negatively to the offer, he had considered it over the months. But perhaps now, with so much uncertainty still between them, was not the time. As they sat in amicable silence, save for their chewing, Fenris’ thoughts turned to last night. As he recalled one of the many funny things Hawke said last night, his lips twitched at the corners.

 

"You propositioned me to tie you up like a helpless maiden," Fenris blurted out before he could stop himself. "You swooned and everything." He couldn’t bring himself to look up to see Hawke’s expression, but he was struggling from letting a grin of amusement claim his face. Eventually the grin one out over embarrassment. "You also nearly set fire to my bedroom."

 

“I did what?!”  That was ridiculous, Hawke couldn’t possibly have been that drunk. From the look on the elf’s face, the twitching of his lips as he tried not to openly make fun of the drunken mess Hawke had been last night, he knew it was true. “Well, since I can see there are no singed curtains or blackened pieces of furniture, I assume I was unsuccessful in lighting anything on fire.” He ate a few more pieces of bread, chewing thoughtfully. “Did you do it?” Hawke was looking at Fenris from the corner of his eye. “Did you tie me up? Is that how you kept me from burning down your bedroom?” Before Fenris could think that Hawke’s questions were born of accusation or offense, he hurried on. “I wouldn’t blame you if you had done it. I’m sure I was quite a handful. I don’t know that I’ve ever been that drunk before.”

 

"What? No," Fenris dismissed immediately. "You distracted yourself with your maidenly desires until I was able to put you to bed," he explained with a half smirk, not realizing that he set a target a mile wide for Hawke to exploit. "You were trying to light the fireplace, but found yourself unable. In any matter, if I had tied you up, you would not have been able to arise so easily this morning,” Fenris added between bites. He watched Hawke across the table, always enjoying the fullness and sincerity of the emotions that washed over his Champion’s face.

 

There was so much wrong with that sentence, Hawke didn’t know where to start. “You… _put me to bed_ …because I was distracted by _maidenly desires_.” He snorted and popped a large hunk of bread into his mouth, finally feeling brave enough to investigate some of the meat now that his stomach was no longer in an unpleasant knot. “And I suppose you weren’t even tempted to know what it might have been like to tie me up and take me?”

 

Where the bold question had come from, Hawke couldn’t say. Perhaps he was just trying to provoke a reaction, trying to salvage some measure of his shredded pride from the past several months. Fenris, likely without meaning to, had been running Hawke ragged, driving him mad with loneliness and need. Could anyone blame Hawke for his merciless teasing? “I would have thought you’d have enjoyed having me completely at your mercy. Nothing to be afraid of then. You could do whatever you liked.”

 

"That’s not what I meant!" Fenris exclaimed, flustered. "You were not fit to give consent, Hawke. I would never take advantage of you like that." Hurt flashed across his face, plain as day. "Especially considering the fact that you seem to recall not a single thing about last night," he added with what could be described as a pouty expression. "That would be a violation, no matter how appealing the proposition."  Fenris clamped his mouth shut, a startled expression claiming his face. The last part of his sentence tumbled out of him; he had not intended to say that.

 

Fenris had very mixed feelings about the whole tying people issue; forgivable, with his past. But he also didn’t want Hawke doubting he desired him. With a heavy groan, Fenris let his head fall to the table with a dull thunk.  This was a very frustrating situation he found himself in, and he hadn’t even had anything to drink yet.

  
  


Chuckling, Hawke set his food aside. “Fenris, honestly,” he said, fondness heavy in his voice. “I know you wouldn’t take such liberties if I wasn’t able to give you my permission in no uncertain terms. That consideration and restraint is something I’ve always admired about you.” He reached across the table, sinking the fingers of both hands into brilliant white hair, massaging Fenris’ scalp and thumbing gently at his ears.

 

“On the other hand, it’s quite gratifying to know you want me enough to even consider tying me up. There is a lot of fun lovers can get up to with a bit of rope. And the thought of it…” Hawke shivered a little, eyes going hazy as he really considered letting Fenris crack the whip, so to speak. “Well, it’s an entirely-too-pleasant thought.” It wasn’t something Hawke had put much time into fantasizing about. He had to give his drunken self some hefty points for being a genius.

 

Fenris had to stop himself from humming in appreciation as Hawke’s fingers grazed his scalp. As the touch receded, he lifted his head and raised an eyebrow with a half concealed smirk, a hint of the lust he had been repressing deepening his voice,  ”Do you often imagine being restrained so, entirely at my mercy?”  He wouldn’t lie, it was an appealing thought.

He coughed, thinking it wise to steer the conversation into less dangerous territory while there was still so much uncertain between them.

 

"Now that you’ve eaten, how are you feeling?"

 

Hawke’s eyes widened at the suggestive note in Fenris’ voice. He hadn’t expected the elf to carry the flirtation any further, let alone to do it so well. “I…it’s a…thought,” Hawke stumbled over his words, mind effectively frozen for a few seconds.

 

It took him time to follow the abrupt change in subject matter, so Hawke simply stared blankly at Fenris for a beat. “What? Oh! I feel fine. Better. Thank you.” It was true. The unpleasant roiling of his stomach had stopped, and the headache was a distant memory. Barring a little bit of lingering tiredness, Hawke was feeling much more himself. But it seemed that Fenris was feeling off.

“What happened last night? I feel that there’s something you aren’t telling me. Besides my hidden interest in bondage, apparently.”

 

Fenris chuckled at the fact he could still have such an effect on the man before him before turning to more serious matters.

 

"Ah, yes. Well, there were many things said between us. You came to my house last night, very angry with me for leaving. Which you had every right to be. I…" Fenris looked down at the table, ashamed of his behavior. "I was scared, Hawke. I was a coward, and you had every right to call me so. After the first time, it was just fear of the memories, but I became so attached to you so quickly. I became afraid of the power you held over me. I had hoped that by pushing you away I would suffer alone, in silence. I did not realize my actions would cause you to suffer as well.” He looked at Hawke, then, sadness plain to see in his eyes.  ”And as I told you last night, no amount of uncertainty on my part can any longer justify hurting you.  So, I present you the same option I presented you last night. I will do _whatever_ you wish of me to right this wrong. I cannot bear to see my actions hurt you so.  Tell me to go, or ask me to stay. Either way, I have made my decision, wherever that may lead.” After all that was said, Fenris let out a great sigh, and slumped back into his chair. Even just saying those words to Hawke now that he was sober enough to remember them let a great burden off of his chest.

 

Hawke’s mind raced and stalled in turns as he tried to summon the memories that went with the things Fenris was telling him. It seemed that much had taken place the night before, things that were difficult and emotional, but that had laid groundwork for good things to come. It may have been the second-most eventful night since this relationship began. And Hawke could remember none of it.

 

“You’re asking for me to forgive you,” Hawke realized all at once. “In your own indirect way, you’re telling me that you’re sorry. Isn’t that so?” His heart aching, Hawke stared at the pitted, scratched surface of the table rather than meet Fenris’ gaze, seeing the places where Fenris’ gauntlets had dug into it. He could imagine the spasmodic clench of Fenris’ hands in anger or anxiety. The elf had never been the best at hiding strong emotion. His hands always revealed the truth.

 

What could Hawke say to him? Was he truly ready to let go of the past, to move forward, knowing that the steady, strong presence of Fenris would remain at his side? No matter what Fenris said now, was Hawke ready to trust him not to run away again? That’s what it all came down to, Hawke knew. Could Fenris be trusted? Hawke sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, fighting a resurgence of headache. He was quiet for a very long time.

 

When Hawke stood up, decision reached, he walked around the table to Fenris’ side. “You must know you’re asking for much, after everything that’s happened. I’m not sure I can forgive you—not without something more than pretty words.” He stopped beside Fenris’ chair, hand resting on the table as he peered down at the elf, expression shuttered. “Did you mean it when you offered to do whatever I wish? _Anything_?”

Fenris shook his head. “I do not expect your forgiveness so easily. I only ask the chance to earn it.” He looked up and gently took Hawke’s hand, enjoying the way his bare hand felt against the mage’s while allowing the sincerity of his regret and of his commitment to penetrate his carefully crafted mask. “I shall do my best to fulfill any task you see fit to give me to make it up to you, Hawke. I certainly owe you at least that much.”

 

With a subdued smile, he added, “and I shall trust you not to abuse that.”

 

“I already have a task in mind for you,” Hawke said, giving Fenris’ hand a gentle squeeze. In truth, the second Hawke had made his choice, he’d known exactly what he wanted Fenris to do. “You’ve caused me no end of trouble, Ser Elf. The price for that should be hefty, don’t you think? Perhaps I should demand that you travel far and bring me back the skin of a High Dragon, or the skulls of a dozen ‘Spawn. Maybe I should send you into the caves to kill giant spiders and bring me back a sack full of those…grabby, bitey mouth things they’ve got. The pinchy things.” He held his hands in front of his mouth, making a hissing noise while touching his index fingers together, and further illustrating exactly which pinchy things he was describing.

 

“Honestly, none of those things would satisfy me. I’m infinitely more difficult to please.” Hawke went to his knees beside the chair, grinning up at his elf. “I’m afraid you’re going to have to work a bit harder if you want me to believe your sincerity. You could start with a kiss, if you’ve got a mind to. I’m sure any protests that I might venture would dissolve right away, if you kissed me well enough.”

  
  


Fenris would gladly do any of the things Hawke had listed, but what his Champion had asked of him seemed the far better option.

 

"I think I can do that," Fenris said agreeably, weaving his fingers in Hawke’s hair softly as he pressed their lips together. The kiss was slow, gentle and unassuming, a far cry different from the fiery battle of wills that was their first. He licked Hawke’s lips softly, asking invitation, and when it was given he leaned further and slowly and deliberately plundered the man’s mouth until he was quite certain Hawke was mewling into the contact. His own heart hammered in his chest, and eventually Fenris had to pull away, panting softly, for fear of passing out. When he had the presence of mind to do so, Fenris threw a crooked smile Hawke’s direction, still stroking the man’s hair softly.

 

"Was that sufficient for my first task, or do you require more of me?"

 

Amusement and desire both were evident in his voice, and he pressed another chaste kiss to a slightly dazed Hawke’s still parted lips.

 

Something about the touch of Fenris’ lips on his always sent Hawke’s brain spilling from his ears. The kiss had started off so gently, warming Hawke to the furthest reaches of his heart. He groaned, the sound broken with all the emotion that he couldn’t help feeling, couldn’t keep hidden. There were no secrets, when Fenris kissed him like that. As it deepened, Hawke whimpered and sighed, hands clenching on the elf’s bony knees. By the time Fenris released his mouth, Hawke was flushed, breathing quickened with helpless arousal. He’d completely forgotten how the entire thing had started. “Task…” he echoed, already leaning into the second kiss, disappointed when Fenris seemed delighted to deny him. “Oh no, Ser Elf. I’m afraid I’ll always require more. But that was a _gorgeous_ start.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I took the idea for the backstory of Fenris' favor from a great fem!hawke/fenris fic called Felix Culpa. Lots of angst. It's great. It's my official headcanon about his favor now.
> 
> But yeah, just giving credit where it's due!


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